THE H-BOMB GIRL

by Stephen Baxter

  “ ‘The whitewash will reflect the blast of a nearby atomic explosion,’” Mrs Sweetman read gravely. “We will begin with the windows that face west, because the first bombs are likely to fall on Liverpool docks, which are that way.”

  “I’ve read about this through CND,” Joel said, as he splashed his brush up and down. “It’s pitiful. I can’t believe I’m actually standing here doing this. It’s beyond satire.”

  Laura found this irritating. “You’re a bit smug, you know, Joel. Why do you think you know better than all the experts in the government? They wouldn’t make us do this if it wasn’t going to do some good.”

  “It’s all a big lie,” Joel said. “Just to keep us busy and stop us panicking. You could defend yourself against the bombs in the Second World War, with luck. You can’t defend yourself against an atomic blast. That’s the truth. Ouch, my fingers are killing me. The quicklime’s getting in the cuts.”

  Bernadette said, “And the smell of it’s making me heave.”

  “We’re not going to do very well in an atomic war,” Laura said, “if we can’t survive a night in the Cavern.”

  Mrs Sweetman came along the line of windows. “You missed a bit, Mister Christmas. We don’t want those Communist megatons leaking into school because you were lazy with your paintbrush, do we?”

  Joel grinned. “No, Miss.”

  Bernadette said, “You look as if you’re dying for a ciggie, Miss.”

  “Gin and tonic, more like.” She walked on.

  Joel filled in the last corner of his window.

  At lunchtime they met Nick at the railings. He wore dark glasses and had a black scarf wrapped around his mouth. But his face was still puffed up.

  “You look terrible,” Bernadette said.

  “You’re the one with whitewash on your nose.” His voice was gravelly and slurred. Maybe his broken teeth were giving him trouble. He seemed worse than the night before.

  Bernadette reached up. “Let’s take off your shades and have a look.”

  “No.” He pulled away and winced. “My head’s killing me. Probably a hangover, right?” He touched his forehead, gingerly. “I took some aspirins.”

  Joel asked, “What did they say at the hospital?”

  “I didn’t stick around.”

  Bernadette snapped, “You what?”

  “Never did like hospitals. Anyway, haven’t you heard? It’s on the wireless. They are clearing out the hospitals. They’re even sticking scuffers in there to kick out all the dockers with bad backs. Getting ready for war casualties,” he said in a graveyard voice.

  A car drove through the school gate. It was silver, and it had a Stars and Stripes fluttering from its bonnet. A couple of people got out, white-coated like doctors, and they carried equipment into the school.

  “That’s a Jag,” Joel said. “One of those new E-types. Dribble.”

  “Americans,” Bernadette said. “Always flash.”

  “Just like their wars,” Nick said, “Flash bang wallop! They’re dragging us into this one, and it’s nothing to do with us. I don’t even know where Jamaica is.”

  “Cuba,” Laura said.

  “Who cares?”

  Laura had never known Nick to be quite so sour and aggressive before. Maybe his mood had been affected by the kicking he’d taken.

  Nick said now, “Have you noticed how happy some of them are? The old folk. Anybody over about thirty. They complain about Hitler’s war all the time. But now it’s back on the telly, they can chuck all the rules out of the window and be a hero again.”

  “The trouble is,” Bernadette said, “we’ll grow old too. And we’ll probably be just as bad, if we’re still around in 1980 or 1990 or the year 2000.”

  “You’re old before your time, Bern,” said Nick. “Anyhow I’ll still be around here when you kiddies come out of your afternoon classes.”

  “Why?” Bernadette asked.

  “Because if the bomb really is going to drop, I want to be close to the only two people I know who might have a way to stay alive. Which means you.” He pointed to Joel. “Mister Junior CND cub scout.”

  Joel said, “You always laughed at me before. Nobody’s bothered about that stuff, you said.”

  Nick just ignored him. “And you, Laura. You’re the H-Bomb Girl. We worked that out from the moment we met you. But you’ve never told us the whole truth, have you?”

  Laura saw the way they all looked at her. This was a crisis that was bound to come, she supposed. A test of loyalties, and their new friendship.

  “Did you know about Cuba?” Joel asked.

  “For a few days. My dad told me some of it.”

  “So why not tell us?”

  “He made me promise not to.”

  “But we’ve helped you,” Nick said. “We’ve saved your bacon a few times.”

  She felt her face redden. “Look, it was impossible for me. Whether I told you or not I’d have let somebody down. I’m glad it’s all out in the open, and there are no more secrets. Anyway I’ve helped you too. I knocked that Ted off you, didn’t I?”

  “Fair enough.” Bernadette touched her shoulder. “You’re not bad for a Posh Judy.”

  Nick kept up his hard stare. But his face crumpled, as the pain in his head returned.

  Chapter 15

  That afternoon they sat through normal lessons. With its windows whitewashed the classroom was dim.

  Nobody was let out for games. They were being kept in the school building.

  And, one by one, they were called out of class. You were escorted away by a teacher, and brought back. The boys had to report to Mister Britten, and the girls to Mrs Sweetman or Miss Wells. The rumour quickly spread that you would be stripped and searched.

  That sent Laura into a panic. The Key was around her neck. What was she going to do now? She longed to talk to Bernadette.

  But there was no chance to say anything before Madame Minet came to the door and, following a strict alphabetical order, called Laura out.

  She was marched down the corridors. Helmeted scuffers stood at the corners, in case some rogue kid made a run for it. The school was more like a prison, this afternoon.

  Minnie Mouse was as kind as ever. “All to do with the emergency, you know. Not to worry.”

  But Laura had absolutely no doubt that all of this was happening, not because of the emergency, but because of her.

  Laura wasn’t surprised to find Miss Wells sitting in the staffroom, waiting for her. A screen had been set up, like a doctor’s surgery. There was also a lady in a white coat with scientific-looking equipment, anonymous white boxes, and a female police officer. The white-coat had arrived in the Jag with the American flag.

  Miss Wells said, “This is Doctor Smythe, and WPC Bryant. They’re not here to hurt you. They’re here to help you. We all are.”

  “How does a strip-search help me?”

  The WPC said gravely, “The Emergency Powers Act has been passed by Parliament this morning. Part of the police’s job is to screen out subversives.”

  “Oh, yes, the fourth year is full of subversives.”

  “Don’t be mouthy, Miss Mann,” Miss Wells said sharply. “Is there anything you want to tell us yourself? Anything you’ve seen or heard that strikes you as strange? Anything you have in your possession that you shouldn’t?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Laura snapped.

  Miss Wells glared. The WPC and the lady doctor exchanged glances, then shrugged. A nutty kid.

  Miss Wells said, “Go behind the screen. Pass out your clothes for the WPC to inspect. The doctor will come behind the screen to examine you.”

  “Have you got our parents’ consent?”

  “We don’t need it,” said the policewoman. Her voice was hard now. “It’s a national emergency. Please don’t make trouble, miss.” And somehow, without moving, she drew Laura’s attention to the gun at her waist.

  Laura didn’t have a choice. She went behind the screen and begin to strip off. When she h
anded out her blazer to the WPC she heard a clicking noise. She peeked over the screen. The scuffer was passing a kind of plastic wand over her blazer. It was connected to a box with a dial.

  “What’s that?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” said Miss Wells.

  “I’ve seen James Bond. That’s a Geiger counter. Why are you worried about radioactivity, Miss Wells?”

  The WPC said evenly, “Get back behind the screen please, miss.”

  She didn’t see any way out. There was nowhere to hide the Key, which would be exposed when she took her blouse off. Laura played for time, messing about with her school tie, hoping that something would turn up. Nothing did.

  She unbuttoned her blouse. The Key wasn’t there.

  When she thought it over she knew exactly what had happened.

  She submitted to the rest of the examination with a grin of triumph. The WPC searched every scrap of her clothing. The doctor briskly searched her too, even looking inside her mouth, and she passed peculiar-looking instruments over her skin. She found nothing.

  By the end of it, Miss Wells’s face was like thunder.

  When she got back to class, Laura whispered to Bernadette, “How did you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Get the Key off me, without me even noticing?”

  “That would be telling.”

  “Where have you put it?”

  “You’ll only blab. We’ll fetch it at the end of the day. And Miss Wells’s phone. One-nil to us, our kid.”

  “They’re getting tougher, Bern. That policewoman had a gun, and banged on about national emergencies. We won’t get away with it much longer.”

  Bernadette shrugged. “We’ll just have to deal with that when it happens. Now get on with your irregular verbs. Or whatever it is we’re doing. I’m a bit lost myself.”

  “Bern?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  Bernadette sighed. “Where would you be without me?”

  At home, Dad hadn’t phoned.

  That night Mum cooked a roast dinner, a chicken with stuffing, roast potatoes, sprouts, carrots, gravy. She could cook well, when she stuck to simple things. She served wine for herself and Mort, lemonade for Laura.

  The three of them sat around the small dinner table, Mort, Mum and Laura. Mort was in his uniform, with his jacket on and his tie done up. He’d made an effort. Mum was dolled up too, with bright make-up and her hair in a bun.

  They ate in silence, except for the tapping of the cutlery on the plates, and the brisk crunching noise Mort made as he chewed. Under her fear of him, Laura had developed the kind of dislike for Mort that was so intense that everything he did, even the way he ate, irritated her.

  Mort’s big new rental telly was on in the background, in case of any more news about the emergency. A film called Mrs Miniver was being shown, made during the Second World War, a kind of propaganda thing about a woman being brave. Normal programmes had been scrapped, except for morale-boosting stuff like this, and the news, and even that was mostly government announcements.

  “Great chow, Veronica,” Mort said at length, wiping his mouth. “Traditional English fare, right? My compliments to the chef.”

  Mum blushed. “Well, we may as well eat everything up before it spoils. We won’t have this on rations, you know.”

  “Rations?” Laura asked. “Who said anything about rations?”

  “Oh, it’s the first thing they’ll bring back, you’ll see. I wonder if they’ll give us new cards.”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head, little missy,” said Mort, and he actually winked at Laura. “I’ll see you’re OK.”

  Laura glared at him. “The way you saw Mum was ‘OK’ in the war? I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

  Mort laughed. “You’ll come begging when you run out of candy bars.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Oh, Laura,” her mother said tiredly.

  Mum served up rice pudding. Laura helped her with the dishes, taking care never to be left alone with Mort. The roast had been OK, but the pudding was both burned and cold. Laura would have thought that was against the laws of physics. But Mort ate up his portion as if he was a starving man, and his compliments made Mum blush again.

  Laura helped clear up. By the time Mum served coffee, and Mort had lit up a fat cigar and loosened his tie, the film was ending in a surge of weepy music.

  “There now follows a statement by the Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Harold Macmillan.”

  “Good evening. I talk to you now at a time of grave international crisis. And yet I bring hope…”

  “Oh, great,” Laura said. “What’s on the other side?”

  “Macmillan,” Mort said.

  “Hush, Laura,” Mum said.

  The three of them sat down on the settee and armchair, facing the telly.

  Macmillan’s face was long and mournful, with sad bloodhound eyes and sagging pouched cheeks. He had been born during Queen Victoria’s reign, and he looked it.

  “I’m sure you’re all aware, from President Kennedy’s announcement and the news that has emerged during the day, of the continuing crisis over the Russian military adventure in Cuba. I have had repeated conversations with President Kennedy in the course of the day, and with other world leaders, as well as the Secretary General of the United Nations. Negotiations are intense and continuing, but though there are chinks of light in the clouds of despondency, I have to tell you that we have yet to make a breakthrough…”

  Mort stabbed his cigar at the screen. “I’ll tell you where that old guy is right now,” he said. “He’s in a bunker, with his War Cabinet and his military chiefs. I went there once. Bleak kind of place in the Cotswolds. They call it ‘Turnstile.’”

  “They’re all right then,” Laura said.

  Mort said, “It’s not a place you’d want to be. They don’t have their families down there with them, you know.”

  “Why, look,” Mum said now. “It’s Mister Churchill!”

  There was the familiar round, almost babyish face, the small serious mouth, the bulldog jowls. A caption read: “The Rt. Hon. Sir Winston Churchill, MP.”

  “My gosh,” said Mort, “your wartime leader.”

  “He’s nearly ninety, I think,” Mum said.

  Mum and Mort leaned closer. Their faces were lit up by the telly’s silver-grey glow, and Laura imagined a million other homes, millions of other people, all staring at Churchill’s comforting, moon-like face.

  Churchill’s voice was a bass rumble. “The Prime Minister has asked me to speak to you tonight, at this time of national crisis, as one who has seen it all before. How could I refuse? Even when he told me there would be no fee, I still couldn’t refuse…”

  Mum laughed, besotted, as if Churchill was a movie star. “Always a bit of a one, old Winnie.”

  “I once saw one of his scripts for a wartime speech,” Mort said. “Pinned up inside a command bunker. It was set out like a poem, you know? It’s no accident he speaks so well. He plans every word.”

  Churchill’s face dissolved to a map of Britain, and he talked about the new arrangements for the government during the State of National Emergency.

  The central government would be working in its bunker, but there would be twelve “Regional Commissioners,” like local prime ministers, to run things in case communications broke down. The commissioners would be cabinet ministers. In the north-west, where Liverpool was, the Regional Commissioner would be Edward Heath, the government Chief Whip.

  Under Heath there would be an Emergency Committee, including the Mayor of Liverpool, councillors, aldermen and town clerks. There would be an Army District Commander and a Regional Director of Civil Defence to run the military in the area. The committees would meet in bunkers and basements, and would stay there until the emergency was over.

  There was a “War Book,” Churchill said, with instructions for what the committees and commissioners were supposed to do. Everything
had been worked out in detail, he said.

  Laura stared at the little captions. “Regional Director of Civil Defence.” That was who she was supposed to call about the Key, if the worst came to the worst. Maybe if she did call the number Dad had given her, she would be taken down into a bunker, like Mr Macmillan, until Dad could get to her.

  She wasn’t sure she had ever really taken Dad’s dire instructions about the Key seriously. But seeing those words on the telly screen made everything seem real.

  Churchill’s face returned. “Of course war has not yet been declared. But such is the lightning pace of modern technology that such a war as we must now contemplate may be over before it has time to be declared—or peace to be brokered.

  “The French have a saying for times like this. Déjà vu. Well, we British don’t say much. We just roll up our sleeves and get on with the job. On the accession of our gracious Queen Elizabeth, I said that she came to the throne at a time when mankind is poised between world catastrophe and a golden age. And so it is now. But when we have come through this crisis together, when we have built a better world for our children, future generations will speak of the courage we showed at a time of unparalleled danger. I wish you victory, and peace.” He held up his fingers in his familiar V-sign.

  The picture faded to a Union Jack, rippling in the wind.

  Another film started up. The Dam Busters. Wartime heroics.

  “Oh, good,” Mum said. “I always liked Richard Todd.”

  Laura stood. “I’m going to my room.”

  Mort looked up at her. “Laura. Listen to me. Everything will be OK, for you and your mother. There are places I can take you. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” He smiled, but his small eyes were blank. “You’re going to have to learn to trust me.”

  Laura felt cold, deep inside. There was nowhere safe, she thought, nowhere in a dangerous world, not even in her home.

  She walked out.

  Mum called after her, “Put the kettle on, would you, love?”

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday 24th October. 8 a.m.

  I keep expecting Mort to just grab me, to drop the game-playing. He’s still holding off. How much longer?